


Something Like a Memory

by overratedantihero



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Dubious Consent - Fandom, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Abduction, Age Difference, Brainwashing, Choke Hold, Drugging, Emotional Manipulation, Head Injury, Isolation, M/M, Manipulation, Nudity, Possessive Behavior, Temporary Amnesia, predatory behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-28 11:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16240352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overratedantihero/pseuds/overratedantihero
Summary: Slade comes across an amnesiac Dick and gets ideas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I fucking hate what DC is doing right now so have this amnesia themed mini series instead.

The rumors were true.

Slade hadn’t been in Gotham when he’d heard, but his resources were far reaching, and he was never one to shy away from opportunity. So, he’d cut his hunt short, warned Wintergreen to prepare the Connecticut home, and took a personal plane to New Jersey.

He didn’t dare fly into Gotham airspace and when he did enter the city, he did so in the cover of daylight. When the Bat was likely to be distracted as Bruce Wayne, and when the various vigilantes of Gotham were attending class. That’s what happened when you employed as many children as Bruce, they were _vulnerable_.

Even for the time of day, Gotham was oddly quiet, and Slade moved freely enough to take a town car in his civvies. The Ikon suit nestled in his duffel bag, and his holster around his thigh, but Slade whistled Foreigner hits as he approached Dick’s Gotham penthouse.

It would have been wiser to harbor Dick in Wayne Manor, if Slade’s intel was correct. But the Bat was emotional and hot-headed, and Slade parked the car right next to Dick’s motorcycle in the penthouse’s parking garage.

Riding his pleasant mood, he took the elevator without bothering to disguise his holster or duffel bag. The receptionist in the lobby frowned, but she recognized Slade from Slade’s less… insidious visits to Dick’s apartment, and so she simply greeted him with her usual generic congeniality.

Slade didn’t bother with a key. He snapped the door handle, breaking even the electronic locking mechanism, and kicked the door open.

Tim jumped to his feet from where he’d been dozing in an armchair.

“Slade?” He blurted, reaching around himself for some sort of weapon. His hand closed around a decorative clock from the chair-side table. It was branded with Nightwing’s insignia. “Slade, you can’t be here,” Tim hissed. “What do you want?”

Slade raised his eyebrows. “Shouldn’t you be in class? What are you, thirteen?”

Tim scowled. “I’m _seventeen_. And I left school—and it’s none of your business, get out!”

Slade sucked his teeth in mock concern. “That’s unfortunate, you really should have stayed in school. Fewer bruises.”

Tim rushed Slade and Slade snatched Tim by the clock-wielding wrist and lifted him so that his feet dangled and kicked in the air. A press of Slade’s thumb against Tim’s wrist and the clock slid from Tim’s spasming fingers to clatter to the ground.

“Listen,” Slade said, voice level and even conversational. “I have no interest in you. I’m content to leave you alive, I’ll even let you walk out of here. But I will be taking what I came here for, and neither god nor man will stop me. Certainly not a knock-off Robin.” With seemingly a flick of his wrist, Slade tossed Tim across the room. Tim curled up, crashing into the glass dining room table. The glass shattered beneath him and when Tim scrambled to stand, he slipped on a shard and fell back, knocking his head into the tile floor and stunning himself.

Slade snorted, but did not waste time admiring his handiwork before he strode from the scene. He walked down the hall and paused outside of Dick’s bedroom door to compose himself before swinging it open gently.

Inside, curled on his massive California king sized bed, Dick lay asleep. His slack jaw was clean shaven and soft, full hair fell in their usual waves around his face.

“Wig?” Slade asked Tim, who was quietly creeping behind Slade with a raised knife. Tim sighed and lowered the knife.

“Yeah. B thinks it’ll help him with his memory if he can see himself as he was.”  

Slade cocked his head. “Short-term or long-term?”

Tim shrugged. “Both, kind of? He remembers his parents and sometimes he remembers… snippets. Of other stuff. He’s done stupid well in physical rehab. But he’s having short term memory issues and he’s… different.”

“Different?” Slade asked, wrangling the knife from Tim’s hands when Tim moved to stab him. Tim grunted when the knife felt to the floor. Slade kicked it from his reach and kept a firm grip on both wrists, lifting Tim's feet from the ground as if he weight nothing. Tim glared up at him. Slade shook him pointedly, and roughly enough that Tim’s shoulder popped.

“He’s afraid of heights,” Tim blurted. “He keeps away from the windows and he has nightmares. He doesn’t remember being Nightwing, or even really Robin. So, you don’t want him, he’s not any good to you anymore.”

Slade hummed as Dick stirred. “You’re wrong,” Slade murmured, not tearing his eyes away from Dick as Dick buried his face further into the sheets. “He’s perfect.”

“Slade, don’t--!” Tim tried to shout, but Slade released his wrists and placed him in a quick, artery bruising choke hold. Tim’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he crumpled. Slade found the nearest closet and stored Tim there for when he woke.

Dirty work wrapped up, Slade slipped back into the bedroom with Dick. He knelt by Dick’s bedside and rubbed gentle, soothing circles into Dick’s back. Dick scrunched his face and rubbed at his eyes. His eyelashes fluttered and then he was blinking at Slade, eyebrows furrowing shortly after.

“I…I’m sorry? Are you a friend of my dad’s?” Dick asked, sitting up. He pulled the blanket up to cover his naked chest. “Dad said someone would be coming by today. I- I think I forgot and fell asleep.” Dick scowled, looking down at his lap, yanking at the blankets now. Growing agitated.

Slade reached out and wrapped a hand around one of Dick’s, stilling it. Dick blinked up Slade.

“I’m not his friend,” Slade asserted. “I’m yours.” Dick frowned and opened his mouth, but Slade cut him off. “It’s okay if you don’t remember me, little bird.”

Dick’s face lit up with recognition and Slade smirked.

“I know that nickname,” Dick murmured. His face fell. “But… I’m sorry. I still don’t know your name. It’s—I’m having trouble remembering a lot, it’s not you, it’s—”

“Sh,” Slade hushed, cupping Dick’s face. “Relax, little bird. I understand, you don’t need to explain to yourself. Someone hurt you, it’s not your fault. But I’m going to teach you better. I’ll teach you how to protect yourself, so that no one touches you like this again.”

Dick cocked his head. “Dad said I couldn’t leave the apartment.”

Slade tsked and dropped his hand. “Little birds weren’t meant to be caged. It’s cruel of him to keep you in here. How often does he come to see you?” Slade slipped a couple of fingers into his holster. There, snug alongside his gun, was a syringe. “Does he at least tell you stories? About who you are, where you’ve been?”

“… I can’t remember his face,” Dick confessed. “He comes to see me, just… just not that often. He tells me a bit. My name is Dick Grayson Wayne. I have four brothers and a sister. I used to be a police officer, it’s how I got shot.”

Slade shook his head before Dick even finished speaking. “You weren’t shot as an officer, little bird. You haven’t been an officer in quite a while. Your father, Bruce Wayne, is a vigilante. You are too, so are your siblings. But your father… he’s not a very good man, Dick. He let you get shot. He let your brother, Jason, get hurt too.”

Dick frowned. “I—That. That doesn’t sound right.”

“Has Jason visited you yet?” Slade asked, slowly drawing the syringe out, under Dick’s line of vision. Dick squeezed his eyes shut.

“No… no, Tim said. Tim said he lives out of state. He’s not around. He and Bruce don’t always get along. But I’ve got a photo, of all of us, so I know what he looks like,” Dick said proudly, pointing to a portrait on his bedside table.

Slade set the syringe down, on the ground and within reach, to pull out his phone. He flipped through his photo library before settling on a photo he received courtesy of Gotham City Police surveillance.

“You’re right, little bird. He does live out of state. But he’s not around because this is what Bruce, your father, did to him the last time they met.” Slade held up his phone and showed Dick the image. It was stark, Jason’s mask was in pieces, exposing his beaten, bloody face. At that angle, Batman’s gauntleted fist was pictured, rearing back for another go. Dick covered his mouth, horror spreading across his face as he scanned the picture. 

“Stop, that… that can’t be… he wouldn’t—”

“He would, and he did,” Slade asserted.

Dick frowned. “That… I didn’t see Bruce in that picture. Just a gloved hand. Could be anyone.”

“Jason could tell you,” Slade offered. “If he felt safe coming back here.”

Dick chewed his lip.

“That’s why I’m here, little bird,” Slade continued. “I know what kind of man your father can be. And you’re so vulnerable right now, I don’t want him to hurt you. You may not remember me, but you and I have a long history together.”

Dick nodded, slowly, eyebrows furrowed and with a frown. “I- I recognize you. Kind of. It’s hard, sometimes I get flashes of images. Too fast to really tell. But I believe you.” He bit his lip. “What do I do?”

Slade leaned forward, pulled Dick into a tight embrace. Dick hesitated and then, touch starved as he’d always been, he buried his face against Slade’s neck. Slade stroked his hand up and down Dick’s spine. Slade pulled away only to press his lips against Dick’s. Dick froze, and then melted into the kiss. If not for the synthetic hair between his fingers and the nervous energy in the room, Slade could have mistaken this for any one of their dalliances. Muscle memory served the kid well.

When Slade pulled away this time, he pressed his forehead against Dick’s. “I’m going to take care of it, okay? I’m going to take care of everything.”

Dick hesitated and nodded. Still holding Dick’s gaze, Slade picked up the syringe and slid it into Dick’s exposed back. Dick sucked in a breath in surprise, but Slade was already pressing the plunger, emptying the contents into Dick. When the syringe was empty, Slade discarded it and stood. He wrapped Dick up in the blanket and slung Dick over his shoulder.

“What are you…?” Dick slurred.

“Sh,” Slade shushed. “I have you. And this time? I’m not letting you go.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick wakes up in a strange bed, with a strange man. Slade's playing the long game.

Dick woke slowly, limbs heavy and head pulsating. He couldn’t bring himself to crack his eyes open quite yet, but from touch he recognized soft, knit sheets underneath his naked skin. He yawned, and his jaw pushed into a thin, well-loved pillow. His memory was a chasm of static and intangible, teasing wisps of scenes and images from years into his past, and occasionally from a few hours prior to his present. But the weight of a heavy comforter and the underlying scent of a nostalgic cologne were familiar and comforting amid Dick’s general displacement.

And so, his eyes fluttered open, and he stretched—and he immediately froze, as his bare backside brushed against someone warm and solid and equally naked.

Before he could so much as flinch forward, a thick arm wrapped around his middle and pulled him close, into a firm chest. Dick’s breath hitched, and he prepared to shout, but then, again, the smell of that cologne tangled around him, stronger than it was before. He hesitated.

Dick couldn’t remember where he was or who he was with, but he recognized that cologne. The fragmented images clawing at the recesses of his vacated memory wouldn’t stitch themselves together enough to explain why, but Dick knew that wherever that cologne belonged in his former life, it belonged solidly among feelings of refuge and of affection.  

His shoulders went slack. He took a deep, steadying breath. Safe, he was safe. If he couldn’t trust his own mind, he should at least trust his senses. And once he relaxed, touch also took hold and he realized he liked being wrapped up and pressed against another person. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten this much skin contact. He couldn’t remember much of anything, but all the more reason to relish the present moment. He let out a contented sigh and sunk into the hold.

The body behind him shifted, and sleepy voice murmured, “Kid?”

“Kid?” Dick tried the nickname on his own tongue. A sudden chilliness brushed Dick’s back as the person behind him sat up, pulled away. Dick rolled over, chasing that warmth. But then he saw a rigidly defined abdomen and thick, muscled thighs. His gaze drifted, but then he jerked his face up with a blush. Past the broad chest and herculean biceps was a man sporting a bemused expression and a white eyepatch, matching stark white hair that fell about the man’s sharp features.

Dick swallowed. He’d been nestled against a rugged behemoth like a kitten. That thought stirred something in Dick’s core and he snatched the comforter and wrapped it around himself to hide his rising indecency.

“I’m—I’m sorry, I don’t—” Dick began to stutter, but the man shook his head.

“You don’t remember. That’s fine, little bird. I suspected as much. We’ve had this conversation a few times now. What do you remember last?”

Dick cocked his head. The other man furrowed his brows, so Dick supplied, “My brothers, I think.” Then he snapped his jaw shut because for whatever inane (or buried) reason, he didn’t want to disappoint this stranger by revealing how little he knew and how helpless he was.  

“Don’t feel self-conscious,” the man continued. “Your short-term memory is already doing so well. It’s okay if you’re still struggling with long-term.”

Dick squeezed his eyes shut. “I remember… Jason, Damian, Duke… Tim.” He opened his eyes. “That’s… that order’s not right. It’s… Damian, and then Duke, and then Jason, and then Tim?” He shook his head and clenched his fists into the blanket. “I have four brothers, and a sister too. Her name’s… Donna, I think? Or Barbara, or Cass, I can’t remember. Jason’s… I think Jason’s hurt. He was in an accident.”

Dick let out a frustrated growl. These were people he loved, he knew he loved them, he felt it. But he couldn’t remember any of their faces, not clearly.

Suddenly, those thick arms wrapped around Dick and pulled him close. Dick nearly struggled, but then the smell of that cologne washed over him again, and he buried his nose against the man’s neck, where the scent was strongest.

“I like how you smell,” Dick murmured into the man’s skin. The man’s shoulders shook in a soft chuckle.

“You’ve told me before, little bird. You told me last night too.”

The previous night was too soon to remember. But Dick held the man’s face in his mind’s eye, wrestled with the blurring fog and yanked at receeding memories.

“Orange,” Dick finally mumbled. “And copper, I think? Iron? Why would you smell like metal?”

The man released Dick only to tilt Dick’s chin up and catch his gaze. “My name is Slade Wilson. This is our shared home, in New Haven, Connecticut. You moved in with me because your father was becoming volatile and violent. He hurt your little brother, Jason. Can you remember what your baby brother looks like?”

Dick blinked. He vaguely recalled dimpled cheeks and fluffy, neatly parted hair, and a yellow cape.

“Yeah, I remember what Jason looks like,” Dick murmured, a bit distantly as he clung to the wispy image. “Tiny kid. Worried B’s not feeding him right.”

“You remember B?” Slade asked. Dick frowned at him, already losing Jason’s cheeky smirk.

“Yeah, I think so. He’s Jason’s dad, he adopted Jason…” Dick trailed off with a frown. “My head hurts, I don’t want to do this anymore,” he announced after a silence. “I want to go see Zitka. I have to make sure she’s eating, she gets finicky and doesn’t eat sometimes.”

Dick stood and glanced about for clothes. In his search, he caught sight of the window nearest to him. It took up nearly the entire wall, and from where he stood he could see the tops of other buildings and a passing bird. A wave of vertigo doubled him over. Hands, Slade’s hands, grabbed him, scooped him up, and carried him back to the bed. Once again, Dick buried his face in Slade’s neck, all the while breathing in a pattern that stuttered every time he thought too hard about it.

“Sh, that’s a good boy,” Slade murmured. Dick couldn’t remember who Slade was, how Slade knew him, or what business they had being naked together, but Slade’s soft murmurings and comforting scent drove away Dick’s will to doubt.

After a spell, when Dick’s breathing was even, and his stomach settled, Dick wiggled in Slade’s grip. “Can we get dressed?” Dick asked.  

“Of course,” Slade said without hesitation.

Slade gingerly slid out from under Dick and went to a nearby dresser, pulling out a set of neatly folded clothes. He placed them on the edge of the bed and set out dressing himself with clothes chosen out of the armoire at the far end of the room.

After a moment, Dick reached over and began pulling on the clothes. They were simple; black briefs, dark-wash jeans, and a black, form fitting shirt with a red symbol that splayed from the shoulders, across the chest and back, and tapered down the chest nearly to Dick’s navel.

“What’s this?” Dick asked Slade, gesturing to the symbol.

Slade glanced over as he buttoned his shirt. “Your insignia. Before your accident, you had an alter ego. Renegade.”

Dick blinked. Brief glimpses of memories flitted, of a red and black costume. Of a girl with an eye patch.

“Rose,” Dick finally said. Slade stiffened. His gaze slid to Dick, although his posture remained frozen. Dick frowned and shoved his hands into his pockets, unsure of what to make of Slade’s reaction. “I just remember a Rose ‘s all.”

Slade blinked. “She’s my daughter,” he finally said, finishing up his shirt and smoothing it. “You two were close, several years ago. She’s since grown up, perhaps we can invite her to lunch sometime.”

“No!” Dick said, too fast, too loud. Slade raised his eyebrows. Dick cleared his throat. “I just… I don’t want too many people to see me like this. People from my life before. It’s embarrassing.” His throat was closing, so he cleared it again with a gruff cough. “Can’t remember names, or faces, or moments. I don’t want to upset or offend anyone.”

“Whatever you need, Dick,” Slade said mildly, a soft, pleased smile smoothed his face. “This is your recovery process. I am here to help you, and protect you, while you heal and address your new normal.”

Dick snorts. “Makes you sound like my nurse.”

“And who do you think I am?” Slade asked. His voice was cool, flippant, but a little jolt swept down Dick’s spine anyway. He pulled a hand from his pocket to yank at his hair. The cap shifted, and he briefly recalled that this wasn’t his hair, that he had been in an accident, that he’d been shot. He fixed it in a manner he hoped was subtle.

“A friend?” he offered, voice quavering in uncertainty. He flashed back to Slade’s naked body and flushed. Slade smirked and prowled closer. Dick stepped back until the backs of his knees ran up against the bed.

Slade’s hand cupped Dick’s face before Dick realized Slade had gotten that close.

“A little more than a friend,” Slade offered, before pressing his lips against Dick’s. Dick hesitated, but then melted against Slade. It felt more like muscle memory than anything.

“Good boy,” Slade cooed. Dick whimpered and let Slade push him back onto the mattress.

* * *

 

Slade kept careful watch of the sunlit patio as Dick chatted up the waitress with a cocked grin. His propensity for flirting clearly survived the bullet. Slade forced himself to relax, to rest on his laurels if only for a moment.

Transporting Dick had been easy, after swiping him from his home in Gotham. He slept soundly, and when he did wake up, he had been too confused for concern. Nor did he have any reason for concern. Where episodic memory failed, Slade relied on Dick’s olfactory memory by getting a hold of a bottle of the cologne Dick’s father, his birth father, used to wear. Finding an 80s fragrance based off vague descriptions Dick had let slip over the years wasn’t terribly easy, but Slade’s effort paid off in spades.

He’d managed to convince Dick of weeks of care and attention and affection despite having fetched Dick only three days prior. Dick’s memories of the other Robins were solidly of their youngest years with the Bat, and although Slade hadn’t needed to expose Dick yet, the innocence Dick’s fractured memory impressed on the others would make it all the more shocking and heinous when Dick learned of the Bat’s cruelty over the years.  

Slade’s phone rang, and Slade excused himself from the table. The waitress separated from Dick too, and so Dick pulled out the tablet that Slade had given him. It was cut off from the internet by design, lest Dick stumble on articles about himself or Bruce Wayne, but it was loaded with sudoku and other puzzles to keep the boy occupied and to sharpen his concentration.

“Billy,” Slade greeted, keeping a sharp eye on Dick even as he drifted to a quiet corner.

“Slade,” Wintergreen greeted coolly. “I thought I’d provide you with an update. Batman was quicker to invoke help that we initially believed; he’s already contacted Superman and your position may be compromised sooner rather than later. You’ll need to keep moving to prevent being caught by proximity.”

Slade watched Dick chew on his straw and scowl at the tablet as his fingers danced over the screen.

“It won’t be good for his memory loss,” Slade said.

“As if you’re terribly concerned about that,” Wintergreen shot back. Slade sighed.

“You’ve got something to say, Billy, just say it.”

“Memory is a fickle thing, Slade, you have no idea what will come back and what won’t. You’re hyperfixating again, and it won’t end well if one of the children or one of the Bat’s ilk finds him.”

Dick face smoothed. He’d finished the puzzle. Slade would need to kick up activities; Dick may not be able to recall the steps to his problem solving, but his procedural memory survived well enough.

“Come now, Wintergreen. You’re acting as if having a fully trained, impressionable new soldier won’t be beneficial for our hobbies. Disciplined, former child soldiers are hard to come by.”

“Really? Because I find myself surrounded by them,” Wintergreen muttered. “Fine, Slade. I’ll keep you updated on Superman’s efforts. Take the boy somewhere sunny, he’s earned it.”

Dick abandoned the tablet to the table. He finished off his water, and then beamed at the waitress when she appeared to refill his glass. Under the table, his knee bounced faster than a jackrabbit.

“Somewhere with elephants,” Slade murmured.

“I’m sorry?” Wintergreen asked. Slade grunted.

“Nothing, Billy. See you soon.”

When Slade returned to the table, Dick’s leg stopped bouncing and Dick lit up.

“Where’d you go? It’s boring at a table by myself,” Dick chatted, swirling his straw in his water. Slade smiled, flashing teeth.

“Unimportant. What matters now is that you have my undivided attention.”


End file.
